


why don't we rewrite the stars? (maybe the world could be ours, tonight)

by altissimozucca



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Circus, Circus boy!Charles, Rich kid!Max
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:27:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22831951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/altissimozucca/pseuds/altissimozucca
Summary: He looked at the boy’s uniform, the suit of reds and whites looking far too out of place on such a sweet and angelic face. Max touched his collar, but the boy grasped his wrist and removed his fingers, saying something in that weird language of his; Max could swear he had heard the words before, but couldn’t remember what they were.
Relationships: Charles Leclerc/Max Verstappen
Comments: 15
Kudos: 61





	why don't we rewrite the stars? (maybe the world could be ours, tonight)

**The earliest memory** Max had of _Circo Maranello_ came from when he was merely six years old, a chubby, laughing child with too big of a lollipop clutched tightly in his small, sturdy fist and the tiniest string of rose-coloured saliva running down his chin. He’d been crunching on gravel with his yellow rainboots (stark in contrast to the gloomy weather), walking side-by-side to his mother and jumped into puddles, splashing his sister by accident every-so-often.

His mother scolded him, his full name getting pronounced in emphasis, though with a teasing glint in her oftentimes dull eyes; Max grinned at her sheepishly, mumbling an apology and continued sucking on his lollipop and jumping into puddles, oblivious to the rolling of his mother’s eyes. They continued their stroll through the city, Victoria joining in on her big brother’s fun.

Both children came to a full stop in front of the gates of the city’s biggest park, where in place of the usual empty field stood an array of colourful trailers with their mingling residents chatting noisily with one another, empty food stalls waiting to be vended when the fair finally opens and a great, red-and-white striped tent – the Big Top - in the centre of it all, the core place for all visitors.

Max could only watch the people dressed in the oddest variety of dresses, and sparkles, and skin-tight jumpsuits in wonder, eyes glued to their flawless balance on unicycles or how that one man had been juggling with bowling pins for the longest of times. His eyes were wide in wonder, the childish innocence and awe displayed on his face mirroring his sister’s.

They stood to the side as their mother went to fetch tickets for the show later on in the day. Max didn’t understand the language her and the vendor were speaking in, tugging on her trouser to get her attention. _“What is it, Maxy?”_ she questioned, voice as soft as ever as she grabbed his clammy hand in hers again.

_“What is this?”_ Max asked, tugging his hand away from hers and running to the fence instead, gripping the railing as he looked back at her, oblivious to the amused look on her face. _“Look, mama, there’s a lion!”_ he shouted excitedly, pointing to where a man was leading the chained beast on a leash, something Max would come to despise in the years to come.

He continued looking at the animal, his six-year-old mind unaware of the level of captivity it was kept in. Max let his eyes wander everywhere, soak in the sights for the time being, not sure whether he’d be able to ever see them again; his grip on the fence tightened, hands clamming up from the metal as the juggling man started again, winking in Max’s direction and bowing his head lightly.

Max’s eyes settled on a group of children standing next to an adult, all dressed in colourful attire that only fit a circus; there were three boys there, the smallest of them probably the age of Max’s sister and the middle on about as old as Max. The tallest of them, who was holding a wide ring in his hand, was the one to notice Max and smile at him.

By doing that, he caught the attention of the other two. The boy around Victoria’s age pursed his lips, his tiny hand going to grip the biggest one’s; the middle boy, however, continued looking at Max before waving lightly, a friendly smile forming on his lips. Max waved back, before his hand was grasped by his mother’s and he was getting pulled away from the circus.

What he came to understand years later was that his mother was buying them tickets to see _Circo Maranello_ on show that weekend; when he found himself dressed all nicely, in his pair of cream slacks and an uncomfortable black jumper – the clothes worthy of the son of an aristocrat – Max knew something big was happening, as the only other time he was forced into such uncomfortable clothes was when his sister was born and there was a party with very important people.

Even his father was going to the show, always dressed to impress, holding his wife by the arm and keeping an eye out for any of his colleagues. Max stood by his side, holding Victoria’s tiny hand in his so she doesn’t wander off, having been told by their mother before they left the house to keep an eye out on his sister.

They entered the circus, Max immediately getting overwhelmed by the amount of people doing wondrous things around him. In his eyes flashed the images of clowns, ladies dressed in feathery dresses doing dances with fire in their hands, animals sitting peacefully in their cages for the world to see; Max wanted to go and see the lion from before, but kept his mouth shut and followed after his parents.

The scent of cotton candy filled his nostrils, and his stomach growled. Knowing better than to beg his father, Max clutched his arm around his torso, tightening the grip until the sounds his stomach was making were concealed. His parents moved towards the centre of the field, where the big tent stood, and Max could only look at it with his eyes as round as the moon.

Once they were seated inside of the tent, Max began fidgeting in his seat. He wished to be outside, maybe find the boys from before so they could play hide-and-seek around the trailers in the park and tents; taking a handful of candy his sister had been bought after almost throwing a tantrum, Max craned his neck in search of colourful attire only for the lights to shut off.

Suddenly, the blinding lights of reflectors came on, centred on a man standing on the stage Max failed to notice before. He stood up in his seat, trying to see better, but his father just shot him a disapproving look and made him sit back down; Max did so begrudgingly, listening to the man as he spoke in the unfamiliar language Max heard his mother speaking.

He could see the man slightly, taking immediate note of his round, black glasses and top-hat reminiscent of one of a magician. Before he knew what was happening, the man was gone and there was darkness again; loud thumping was heard, followed by the sound of Fučík’s _Entrance of the Gladiators _that had Max impatiently shifting in his seat, wanting to witness what the big fuss was all about.

The lights turned on again, a burst of reds, blues, greens and yellows illuminating the tent and everybody sitting in it. Performers began piling onto the stage, an array of different people dressed in odd clothes but movements so graceful they would put Bolshoi to shame; Max chewed on his candy, watching as they moved around, doing their perfectly practiced acts.

There were ladies dancing on silk, earning gasps from the audience with their every move; a group of jugglers performing in unison, Ernest Montegos and Duo Danees moving on slack wires and balancing on unicycles at the same time, perfectly synchronised like a well-oiled machine. The crowds looked in awe at Miss Emilia, flinched at the man laying on nails - _le lit de clous,_ _pas faux du tout_ – and laughed at the clowns making fools of themselves.

Max observed the white-faced mascots, unable to grasp why the adults thought them funny. To his childish mind, they weren’t nice nor hilarious; the only thing they were doing on stage was talking, again in that same language Max didn’t understand (or perhaps one other) or throwing things at each other or the first few rows of the audience.

He moved his eyes around the tent, as far as his tiny neck would allow him to in the mass of people. Letting out a huff, he slumped down in the uncomfortable, plastic seat and stole another piece of sleeping Victoria’s sweet, chewing on it. Meeting his mother’s worried gaze, Max smiled politely, as he was taught to since he could think.

Once her attention was once again caught by the performers – this time contortionists crawling around twistedly and receiving praises from the audience – Max sneaked away from his parents, bumping his way through the crowds and outside of the Big Top. Breathing in deeply, Max trudged along the gravel path to the trailers where he’d seen the lion a few days ago.

He found the cage, with the sleeping animal inside. Gripping the iron rods of the construction, his eyes remained fixated on the mighty beast, face almost pressed inside; slightly confused as to why it was sleeping, Max clacked his tongue a few times, trying to get its attention. The lion opened its eyes, blinking lazily and swishing its tail a few times before stretching and moving across its limited space to where the six-year-old was standing.

Before the animal could reach him, Max felt a hand clasp around his own and pull him away from the trailer; he met eyes with a boy around his age with messy, brown hair and big, greenish eyes wide in amazement. Max recognised him as the boy who waved at him when he’d first seen the lion.

_“Why did you do that?” _Max asked, tilting his head in curiosity, though his voice was hinted with hidden anger, as if he was about to throw a tantrum. The boy furrowed his eyebrows, opening his mouth and saying something Max didn’t understand.

He looked at the boy’s uniform, the suit of reds and whites looking far too out of place on such a sweet and angelic face. Max touched his collar, but the boy grasped his wrist and removed his fingers, saying something in that weird language of his; Max could swear he had heard the words before, but couldn’t remember what they were.

The boy continued speaking until Max cut him off, _“What are you saying?” _The boy sighed, hitting his forehead animatedly. Max watched him in amusement for a while, until they were broken by the smallest of three boys coming up to them and grabbing the middle boy’s hand.

“Charles-” was the only word Max picked up on, recognising it as a name he’d heard from his father. He could vaguely remember a moustached man named Charles coming to their home once to talk to his father; moustached-Charles left Max a piece of honey-flavoured candy, discreetly putting it into his hand and pressing a finger to his lips so Max keeps it a secret. Max doubted that these boys knew moustached-Charles.

Before he realised what was happening, a pair of arms wrapped around his torso and he was getting picked up. _“Maxy, don’t ever run off like that again! You gave us a real scare,”_ it was his mother, hugging him close to her chest. Max apologised quietly, fidgeting in her hold in order to be let down.

His father’s face and posture radiated disappointment, and Max looked at the floor guiltily; Victoria seemed to be aware of the tension surrounding them because she remained silent, which was out of character for the bubbly child. Even the two boys must’ve noticed something was up because Max could see them sneaking away from his peripheral vision.

Max hit a stone on the ground with the tip of his shoe, hands clutched together behind his back and his eyes focused on the spot on the ground. Neither of Verstappen children argued when their father told them it was time to go, voice as hard and cold as stone; turning on his heel, Jos began walking away, Sophie talking hold of both her children’s hands and following after him, too.

Shooting one more glance at the spot with the lion, Max could see the middle of the boys staring straight at him. He smiled at Max and waved, disappearing in the crowd of colours and fabrics before Max had the chance to reply.

Every year since then, Max would go to _Circo Maranello_ either with or without his family; knowing better than to wander off again, there were no incidents in the years to come. As time passed, Max learnt to appreciate the art of the circus, the gracefulness they held in their movements and the complexity of their performances.

After a few years, Jos stopped going, writing the circus off as something mindless. _A waste of money,_ he said, closing himself in his office and spending the rest of his days doing nothing but work. Sophie stopped going once Max turned fifteen, believing him to be old enough to care for his sister when they went; even Victoria didn’t want to go anymore.

The only one who stayed was Max; Max, who had become fascinated by the colours and performers as years passed; Max, whose whole year revolved around that one week, in early autumn, when _Circo Maranello_ would come to town and he’d feel as though everything was in its place; Max, who would spend nights dreaming of flashing lights, and musical shows, and the lady spinning on the wheel.

Max, who would go to the back of the Big Top after every performance in search of one person who his eyes continuously followed on the stage, watch in wonder as the trapeze artist flew like a bird, up in the air, twisting and turning in pure grace before catching himself before it was too late. There was one routine Max loved to watch, of Charles _flying_ with his brothers; he’d always jump and trust one of them to catch him, stop him from falling.

Charles may have not fallen to the ground, but Max had. Max, who would sneak to the back and mull around trailers in search of the boy dressed in tight spandex, hair messy from his routine but the grin on his face never dimming; Charles would always hug Max, ever since the second year of his coming to the shows, when Max managed to find him and remembered the boy who took him from the lion.

There was no lion anymore, nor were there seals or the dogs Charles’s older brother trained and let jump through the hoops; even Miss Emilia was gone, fallen to the ground in an accident in training, tragically mourned but never forgotten. The man with the round, black glasses got replaced by a new one with the same pair and a funny accent Max would always forget was Italian.

There was only Charles, who smiled brightly at Max when he’d take notice of him; Charles, who took his hands in his and pulled him in for a hug, smelling of sweat, and smoke, and Givenchy’s _Gentleman_ Max had gifted him once; Charles, who put his chin in the crook of Max’s neck, grounding them both from the haze they’ve been put through.

“I always lose ten years of life when watching you do this,” Max quietly spoke in Charles’s ear, earning a chuckle though feeling his arms tighten around Max’s torso. Pulling away, he kept Charles’s hands in his, tracing his knuckles with his fingers lightly.

“Good thing you see me once a year, then,” Charles responded, brining Max’s hands intertwined with his to his lips and pressed a kiss to them, eyes never leaving Max’s. Letting out a sigh, Charles continued, “You could always come with us. With me.”

Max’s heart broke at the hopefulness in Charles’s voice. He inched closer, arms snaking around Charles’s waist as he looked straight into him, into his soul; there was nothing Charles loved more than the circus, even Max. It was obvious from the way he talked about it, from the smile on his face when he came on the stage, from the pure art he formed with his body.

But Max had a life, too. He couldn’t leave what he’d built for himself, couldn’t let his hard work go to waste, the years spent in university become nothing just so he could travel the world with the circus. “You know I can’t,” Max replied earnestly.

“I know,” was all Charles said in response. He brought them closer, inhaling the familiar scent belonging to Max; all he could do was hold him tight, hold him for hours and hours and hours, until the next dawn when the circus would be packing up and they would be going to the next city, miles away.

They parted ways in the morning; Max pressed a lingering kiss to Charles’s lips, the last one until they’d see each other again. As he started walking back to his home, down the same street he’d been walking on since his childhood, Max’s eyes never left the rainbow-coloured caravan and the trailers, and he whispered quietly, “Until next year.”

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr at altisssimozucca](https://altisssimozucca.tumblr.com/)


End file.
